


It's a Fire

by Saetha



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Dworin Week, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I wanted to write happy things and then I started angsting, M/M, and it all went downhill from there, but there's also fluff and some porn so don't be discouraged, dwarflings, shortfics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-07 20:37:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1913037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saetha/pseuds/Saetha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a collection of the seven short fics/lengthy drabbles written for Dworin Week on Tumblr. The prompts were Memories, War, Food, Family, AU, The End and Intimacy. Individual warnings and ratings at the beginning of each fic!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Dworin Week everybody! Here we go with the first little fic. As always, thanks to my lovely muse Ivana for sticking with me and constantly supplying me with new ideas. (Also, apologies that I haven't replied to comments recently, I swear I will try and do so soon - in the meanwhile, rest assured that they always make me very, very happy!)
> 
>  **Prompt:** Memories  
>  **Rating:** G/T  
>  **Warnings:** mentions of past character death, slight angst

When Thorin closed his eyes he could still remember the smell of stone, iron and a faint trace of freshly-baked bread wafting through the corridors of his childhood. Now the air in the mountain carried with it a whiff of fire and smoke and the heaviness of having sat unbreathed in forgotten hallways for far too long.

After the dragon had left, those of his Company who could still remember the days when Erebor had been a kingdom full of splendour and life had gone off to chase their own memories in the confines of their old home. The others were busy exploring the beauty of mountain they had helped to regain or sifting through the riches in order to find the one jewel that was needed to prove the legacy of their king's rule again. Thorin would join them soon enough, he knew, the pulling towards the Halls of Gold and the heart of the mountain growing stronger by the moment.

His feet had carried him directly towards the old royal quarters. Despite the dust and the destruction the familiarity hit him in the chest with unforeseeable force as soon as he stepped into what had been his home for the first few decades of his life. His fingers trailed over the carvings on the wall, the angular patterns still deeply ingrained in his mind since the last time he had seen them.

When he closed his eyes he could almost hear them - the deep rumbling laugh of his grandfather that had faded into brooding silence during the last years of his reign in Erebor, the calm and collected words of his father resounding from the walls, Frerin's loud and boisterous laughter mingling with their mother's quiet chuckling and Dís' high voice piping up when she was asking her brothers to play with her.

He wished fervently that they could all be here with him to see the wonders of their home once again. _Dead and gone,_ whispered his mind, _they are all dead and gone._ Now his sister was the only one who remained and she had stayed in Ered Luin to govern the people in his stead. Despite her insistence on accompanying them he would've trusted no one else with the task. Dís would keep their people safe until they could return to their homeland - or, when worst came to worst, take care of them when he was gone until Fíli was ready for the crown.

His heart clenched when he thought about his nephews. "I belong with my brother," Fíli had told him and his words had ripped open a wound into Thorin's heart that had never fully closed. He wanted them to be here too, wanted to show them what they had fought and bled and come all the way from the Blue Mountains for, the kingdom that would be Fíli's to rule once he was ready to do so. But he knew that Kíli would never had made it in his condition and leaving him behind had been as much for his nephew's sake as it had been for the quest's. They would catch up with them once Kíli was fully healed.

Thorin walked deeper into what had once been the royal chambers of Erebor. He encountered some stray toys on his way - the stuffed raven that had been Dís' favourite, a small army of toy soldiers he and Frerin had loved to play with and the tiny wooden shield his sister had used to smack him with if she wanted attention. There were more in their bedrooms and he smiled at the memories connected with their various belongings. Would his sister even remember most of their antics? She had been so small when Smaug had laid waste to their kingdom. He wandered into the bedroom belonging to his parents - and took in a sharp breath when he saw his mother's dresser and the ornaments scattered over it. With careful fingers he picked up a comb that had been one of Sigvór's favourites. He could remember it in his mother's hair, the fine glint of gold and the numerous little gems set into it in intricate patterns.

His own bedroom was in the same state he had left it in the morning of the day the dragon had attacked - complete disarray. There were still the remnants of clothes strewn on the floor, mostly boiled leather, tightly woven fabric and metal workings that had survived the passing of time. He had been in a hurry that morning, late for his grandfather's summons at court and quietly promised himself to bring order to the chaos as soon as he returned and before his mother would notice it.

The little dent in the wood of the small chair at his bedside was still there as well, legacy of an angry Frerin hurling a heavy, iron-clad boot at him over a trifle the reason for which Thorin had long since forgotten. The second boot had hit his nose and caused his mother to have half a heart attack at the rather enormous nosebleed that had followed.

He smiled to himself at the memory. Back then it had seemed like the worst that could ever happen to them - an argument between brothers, blood over his new tunic, a shocked mother and a father angry with both of them. How quickly it had all changed, like everything else in their lives, when the dragon had come. The soot on the walls outside and the everlasting smell of burnt air, flesh and stone were the proof that it would never be like it once was, even if they rebuilt their kingdom.

Dwalin was harbouring similar thoughts when he walked through the mountain. Despite the familiarity of his surroundings he knew the new Erebor would be different from the old one - and maybe it was for the best since there were too many memories associated with the time before and during the coming of Smaug. His own steps carried him not towards his own old living quarters, but rather the training rooms that he had spent most of his time in.

He still knew every handspan of the way, the markings on the walls so familiar even under soot and neglected care as if he had seen them only yesterday. He had never been one of the builders whose craft it was to reveal the beauty and forms hidden in the rock itself, but he was of Durin's Folk and as such the beauty of the carved hallways never failed to sway his heart. But above all, this was still _home_. This was where he had been born, where he had spent the first decades of his life in comfort and safety as it could only be offered by the knowledge that no matter how far you went, there was always a place to return to.

The practice courts were partly crumbled and the breath caught in his throat when he saw the twisted shapes under the stone reflecting the light of his torch. They must have been killed when part of the wall had given in. If Dwalin closed his eyes he could almost see what the courts had looked like over a hundred years ago - practice weapons lining the walls, the floor carefully set in different circles for sparring and teaching. He and Thorin had sparred many a time here, testing their strength against each other and honing their abilities when they were both still learning. He had never truly noticed it back then - the way Thorin's eyes had been taking in his sight, lingering a breath too long on his face and figure. Likely because he himself had been too busy doing just that - admiring the prince's lean form, his swift movements and trying not to drown in the blue of his eyes when he should be fending off his attacks. It was all so plain to him now, but back then it had been nothing but a marvel and a mystery at the same time, unacknowledged by both of them.

The pathway to a part of the upper levels was blocked and Dwalin was quietly grateful for it. He knew that the Lady Sigvór, Thorin's mother, had perished there and was glad that Thorin hadn't be able to go up there yet to see it. Now his steps were guiding him to his own old quarters as well, not far from those of the royal family as their close relatives and fellow descendants of the great Durin. Their rooms were slightly smaller than those of Thorin and his family had been, but still large enough to house them all easily. There was no sign of Balin when he set foot into the quarters, but knowing him, he was likely off to the library, seeing if any of the old scriptures had survived.

There were parchments in his brother's room as well and to Dwalin's surprise most of them were still more or less intact. He didn't dare touch them, for fear of making them crumble. Balin's room was still in almost impeccable order, like it had always been throughout their time in Erebor - Dwalin's was slightly less so, although in a much cleaner state than Thorin's would likely be (courtesy of an older brother who always stuck his nose where it didn't belong). His first small battle axe was still leaning against the wall and Dwalin moved slowly to pick it up - he hadn't been carrying it when the dragon attacked and as such it had remained in the mountain.

The axe was still perfectly balanced and he remembered his pride when his father had first given it to him - it had been Fundin's when he had been his age and Farin's before and a proud heirloom of his family. Dwalin knew that Balin, despite being no bad fighter himself, had wanted him to get it as the warrior in his family. With a tinge of regret and anger he thought of Grasper and Keeper, lost in Mirkwood. There would never be a finer set of axes for him and it would take him a long time to ever fashion their likes again. He also remembered Orcrist that had been taken by the treacherous elves and dimly wondered whether Thorin mourned the loss of his fine blade. A bit too fancy and definitely too elvish for both their tastes, but a marvellous weapon nonetheless.

His parents' bedroom held more weapons, most of them of ceremonial make, too heavily decorated for practical daily use. Dwalin walked over to the dresser that had been his mother's. Balin had inherited his orderly mindset from her and instead of her husband's chest of drawers on the opposite side the beads, combs and hair clasps were all stored away in little carved boxes that had once been neatly lined up at the edge of the dresser's surface. His fingers trembled when he opened them, staring at the strange and yet so achingly familiar shapes.

He heard steps behind him and whirled around, half expecting to see his mother's shape come in through the door, like the one time she had found him playing with her hair ornaments and sternly rebuked him for it. But of course it wasn't her - instead Thorin was standing in the doorway to his room, waiting there as if stopped by an invisible wall. Only after a moment Dwalin understood that his friend didn't want to intrude on him and his memories. There was still a slightly feverish glance in Thorin's eyes, as if the gold of the vast halls was reflected in them, a shimmer that hadn't left him since they had entered the mountain. Dwalin pushed it out of his mind like he had done before, choosing to deal with the implications when they presented themselves.

He closed the lids of the boxes again and left his mother's hair ornaments where they were, only pocketing two of them, one for himself and one to give his brother. Then he stepped out of the room to talk to Thorin. His king smiled, a gesture that looked lost as his eyes remained serious, and then nodded to where one of Dwalin's hands was still closed around the beads in his pocket.

"Varna's?" he asked, understanding lighting his eyes.

"Yes."

"Your mother was a remarkable dwarrowdam."

Dwalin grinned.

"Aye, that she was." He remembered the countless times she had scolded him over one thing or another, intimidated neither by her son's stature nor his outwardly grim demeanour. Dwalin was sure that Thorin thought of her as well, the dwarrowdam who had been the reason his little sister had insisted on learning how to fight and the countless hours they had shared on the road and in the wilderness of Dunland.

But just like Thorin's parents, his own were long gone, their lives lost during the years of their exile. Dwalin glanced over to his king, seeing the same sheen of sadness in his features that must be showing on his own. There were so few of their family left to enjoy what they had regained.

"We did it for them." Dwalin whispered. "For their memory."

Thorin nodded and took a deep breath, before continuing with a quiet voice.

"And for Dís and Fíli and Kíli, so that they will have a kingdom to inherit, not just an empty title. For Bombur's family and for Glóin's, for Gimli and all the others, so that they have a true home again and will never know any hardship."

"Yes." Dwalin smiled and stepped closer, putting his hands on Thorin's shoulders and bringing their foreheads together. He prayed to the Maker that they would able to fend off the dragon, should it return and that the people of Laketown wouldn't pay too high a price for their folly of not being able to kill the beast. He was convinced that they would find a solution, whatever happened. They always had. For the past 180 years had he been by Thorin's side and he would continue to be so until the end. And soon his king would ascend to his rightful throne again.

He knew the fear hidden behind Thorin's words, the fear of the gold sickness waiting to put his claws into him and rip him apart and he had heard the roughness in his voice and seen the fever in his eyes when they had first laid sight on the hoard. Still, he believed that Thorin could win against it, could overcome the sickness that had crippled his ancestors. If he was just strong enough, if Dwalin lend him enough strength...surely they could win against this too if they fought together.

Thorin leaned into the touch of his skin, closing his eyes for a moment and drawing another deep breath. The he grasped Dwalin's forearms with his own hands, pulling him closer.

"Yes, we can do this. For them."


	2. War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small pre-BOFA fic. 
> 
> **Prompt:** War  
>  **Rating:** G/T  
>  **Warnings:** some angsting, mentions of dragon sickness

_Give me shelter, or show me heart_

_Come on love, come on love._

_Watch me fall apart, watch me fall apart._

_(_ [ _x_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OWlKZ6C7cDY) _)_

 

 

When the madness vanished, the destruction left in its wake was too large by far to be contained by mere words, no matter who they came from. Dwalin could tell his king as much as he wanted that nothing of what had happened had ultimately been his fault, that it had been the dragon sickness talking, not him, but he could have been speaking to a wall for all the good it did. Thorin barely seemed to hear anything he said and tendrils of fear had slowly started to coil in Dwalin's stomach at the sight of the forlorn expression on his face. And then the ravens brought news of the vast host of orcs approaching and there was no more time left to talk about the events of the last few days.

Dwalin knew that Thorin desperately needed rest before the battle - he had barely slept during the days of his madness and looked far too much like a ghost for Dwalin's liking. No matter how much he tried, however, his king was constantly being ripped out of his sleep by nightmares that he never spoke about, but that set his entire being on edge. All Dwalin could do was to hold him when he woke up screaming, help him calm his ragged breath and assure him that none of the horrid visions he had seen had been real.

The prospect of an impending battle against the orcs should have livened Thorin's spirits - he knew that his people needed a leader and he had always donned that particular mask well when it was required, had drawn strength from the trust he could inspire in others. Now, however, it was as if something had vanished from him, the irresistible strength and will that had propelled him forward all his life, ripped away the moment that he had realised his worst fears had come true and he had fallen victim to the one thing he had promised himself he would always resist. Thorin was slipping away and Dwalin knew it would take a long time to heal what had happened, time and care. He was sure it could be done and saw in the eyes of the others, especially his own brother's and Fíli's and Kíli's that he wasn't alone in that conviction. Dís would never give up on her brother either.

They were both sitting in one of the few chambers free from debris and corpses now, away from the gold and close to the main entrance of the mountain. Fíli and Kíli had curled up on the floor not far from them, dropping into sound sleep almost the instant their heads had touched their rolled up coats. The rest of the company was spread throughout the mountain, either exploring its vast caverns and diverting their thoughts from the impending battle by looking through old rooms or equally trying to find rest. Thorin's exhaustion overcame him eventually and he fell asleep with his head pillowed on Dwalin's shoulder, a position so achingly familiar it almost made the warrior smile. He hoped his king would find at least some rest without nightmares before the battle began. 

Dwalin closed his own eyes, batting away at the memories swarming through his mind of his One looking at him and not recognising him. He chose to concentrate on the solid warmth at his right side and shoulder instead. Dwalin didn't know how long he had been dozing, but his limbs were stiff when he jerked awake at the sound of footsteps entering the small room. Thorin groaned as he woke up as well, sore muscles protesting with every movement as he sat upright again from where his head had slid down into Dwalin's lap during sleep.

"The battle has begun." Balin calmly asserted, his gaze narrowing in worry as it fell on the still hollow face of their king.

Dwalin nodded and he and Thorin hoisted themselves upright whilst Balin continued to wake Fíli and Kíli who were still sleeping with all the blissful ignorance of youth. They had to prepare for the battle now, collect the remainder of their company and arm themselves. Balin cast another look in their direction.

"I will gather the others." he said, shooing the young dwarves out of the room. Dwalin felt a wave of gratitude surge through him. His brother's message was clear: _Help him, Dwalin. Help him find his mind again before he runs into his own doom._

Thorin looked at him, knowing the two brothers well enough to be able to guess the silent conversation between them. He stretched (and Dwalin couldn't help but notice the intriguing movement of his muscles under the fabric although this was clearly neither the right place nor the right time) and sighed.

"Should we go to the armoury then?" he suggested, his voice strangely quiet.

Dwalin nodded and followed his king. The old armoury was still mercifully intact, despite the large amount of damage the dragon had wrought throughout the mountain. His breath caught in his throat when he remembered the many times they had been here - after the practice courts and their own quarters this had been one of the places they had visited most frequently of all. It had been one of their favourite hideouts as children, the different types of armour and different weapons a source of never ending fascination to them. Later they had often accompanied Dwalin's father onto his inspections of the rooms, dreaming of glory on the battlefield with the assumed immortality of the young.

Balin would take a while to gather the rest of their company, so they would have at least a few moments to themselves before the others came barging in. Thorin's fingertips were trailing over the shapes of some armour hanging on the walls, not quite touching, but close enough to disturb the thick layer of ash and dust on the once gleaming metal. There was a glimmer in his eyes that was hard to place - longing, shame, sadness and memory all mingled into one. They walked down the rows of the armours and weapons until they had reached a secluded corner.

Thorin turned around and Dwalin only had a single moment to catch the desperation in his gaze before he found himself shoved into a wall and lips meeting his. The kiss was rough, like that of a drowning dwarf clawing for air, Thorin's fingers clinging onto his hair and digging into his scalp. Dwalin shuddered internally; this was so unlike the dwarrow he had known for the past hundred and eighty years that he caught his lover in a close embrace to quell whatever it was that was eating at his insides. Thorin was slipping away from him and he didn't know how to call him back anymore, as if the madness had opened a rift between them.

Thorin's hands were cradling his face now as he deepened his kiss, eyes closed and thumbs trailing across Dwalin's cheekbones, caressing the line of his jaw as if feeling it for the first time, committing it to memory forever. The warrior gave in to the warmth surging through him, pressing into the kiss, tasting what was his. It never failed to amaze him, the fervour and heat that slumbered behind Thorin's usually so stony facade. Dwalin wished he could capture and imprint it on his skin like all those events already inked into the flesh of his body.

When Thorin finally broke away he wrapped his arms around Dwalin's neck and pulled him closer, his hot breath tingling on the skin of his lover's throat. Dwalin had rarely seen him so shaken - the day that the news of Víli's death had come, maybe, or the night before he and Balin had left to accompany Thráin on his quest towards Erebor. He frowned, noting how cold Thorin's body felt through the fabric of his clothes as he was pressing against him.

Dwalin grabbed Thorin's shoulders and gently pushed him away.

"What is it?" he rumbled, trusting his king to understand the meaning behind his words.

Thorin just shook his head, avoiding his glance. His hands came up again to latch themselves onto Dwalin's arms now, his grip both weak and strong at the same time, clinging onto him as if clinging onto life itself. The warrior lifted one of his hands to cup Thorin's face, forcing up his head so that their gazes met. Thorin's eyes were a whirlwind of emotions, a storm trying to fill the emptiness lurking behind it.

"Tell me."

Whatever it was, however, it was quickly buried as Thorin leaned into another kiss, this time slow and warm, as if the king trusted the touch of his lips and tongue to say what his mind could or would not put into words. Dwalin swatted at the flame of uneasiness burning inside him; Thorin was always in need for reassurance before a battle, but never like this. Never so... lost. His king's fingers were mapping Dwalin's shape now, tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the clasps on his ears, sifting through strands of coarse hair and travelling down at the side of his throat. The warrior shook off the sudden surge of heat floating through his body even as he felt himself stiffen in response to his lover's touch. Not here and not now. They had a battle to win first.

Just when he thought Thorin would never talk, the king pulled away from him and half-buried his face in the furs of Dwalin's shoulder, relaxing for a short moment as the tall dwarf's hands came to rest reassuringly on his back. His murmured sentence was so quiet that Dwalin almost didn't hear it.

"I love you."

Something caught in Dwalin's throat then and for a moment he tried to remember how to breathe. He thought of all the numerous legends their mother had told him and Balin when they were small, ballads with impossible love stories attached to them where the words, when they were uttered, often marked the pinnacle of the story as if they needed to be spoken in order to be known. In over a hundred years that he and Thorin had been together, there had never been any need to say them, for they both knew what was in their hearts. The notion that Thorin might have lost sight of even this most basic of truths scared him more than he wanted to admit.

With a low sigh, he carefully pried Thorin away from himself, taking note of how his friend was still avoiding his glance.

"Look at me." he demanded quietly, underlining his words by slowly pulling up Thorin's chin with his right hand. He almost shrank back from the pain and self-loathing swirling in the deep blue of his eyes.

"Don't. Don't even think about it. I know you. Don't you dare think about saying goodbye or doing something as recklessly stupid as when you faced Azog on that cliff."

The shadow of a smile ghosted over Thorin's face and Dwalin found himself mirroring it with one of his own. He gently brought their foreheads together, thumb rubbing over the clasp on Thorin's ear, an unspoken reminder of a promise almost a century old.

"Whatever happens out there, I'll be at your side. Like I always was. Like I always will be. And we will face it like we have always done - _together_ , Thorin."

He would have shaken his One if he knew it would help the words sink into what had to be the hardest skull their Maker had ever fashioned. As it was, he only glared at him, trusting Thorin to know that he meant what he had said. Thorin's grip around his shoulder tightened and he finally nodded, closing his eyes to calm himself. Dwalin took the opportunity to demand one last kiss from him, intertwining the fingers of Thorin's other hand with his own. The phantom of Thorin's words was from earlier was still whispering in his mind and he found himself replying, very quietly, when they finally turned around to leave and put their armour on:

"And I you."


	3. Food

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here's number three, a 5+1 fic that turned out about 3 times longer than was originally intended. Oops. Five times Dwalin has given someone food and one time he received it.
> 
>  **Prompt:** Food  
>  **Rating:** T  
>  **Warnings:** mentions of character death, angst, mental illness

"Oi, Thorin, where are you?"

Dwalin's voice is reflected by the walls of stone all around him. He has been searching for the young prince for a while now, without success. The young dwarrow frowns; he has looked in their usual hideouts already - the armoury, the practice courts, the storage room. Thorin has been conspicuously absent from all of them and Dwalin is slowly starting to worry.

He has sworn to protect the young prince at all costs - what if he had gotten himself hurt when he wasn't there? Dwalin still remembers the one time they had explored a part of the old mines under the mountain that had been long closed. Water had come in and made for a precarious halt on the slick surface at best. Thorin had slipped and broken his wrist and Dwalin had never been more terrified than when he had heard him cry out in pain.

One last location springs into his mind and he quickly sets off deeper into the mountain. The trip to the mines has by far not been the first of their expeditions through the vast kingdom and by no means the last either. On one of their ventures they have come across a beautiful little cave, all but forgotten by most inhabitants of the mountain. They have sworn to keep it their secret place, not even telling their own siblings about it.

Dwalin almost starts running in anticipation now, quite sure that this is where Thorin is hiding. And indeed he is right - he recognises the hunched set of his shoulders before he even fully enters the cave, his friend squatted on the ground and intently staring at the reflection of the small light he brought in the small pool of water in the stone. He is so entranced by the patterns that he doesn't hear Dwalin enter.

"Thorin?"

The young dwarf whirls around, blue eyes wide before he relaxes again at the sight of his friend.

"Dwalin."

He acknowledges his presence with a nod which also indicates that he doesn't object to him being here.

"For a moment I thought you were Frerin or even father." he continues, gaze showing clearly how troubled he would be by the company of those two.

Dwalin frowns, clearly remembering their earlier promise.

"But they don't know this place, do they?" he points out, the tone of his voice suggesting that surely, Thorin must remember that.

"No." The prince shakes his head, sounding hurt that Dwalin would even _think_ of the notion that he might break their promise. Dwalin decides to let the issue rest for now - it is clear that Thorin is still angry, although less so than he had been when he had stormed out of his father's study earlier. Dwalin wants to ask him what happened, but he knows that Thorin will eventually tell him himself when he has calmed down enough to do so.

He is right.

They spend a good while basking in the stillness and beauty of their little cave, never having felt the need for endless chatter when they are sitting together. When Thorin finally starts to talk about what has made him so angry before, he is looking mostly at his feet.

"Dwalin?"

"Hm?"

"Do you think I will make a good king?"

There is something hidden beneath his words, a quiet fear of his friend's answer and what the future might bring.

"Of course you will." Dwalin says almost automatically. "Why are you asking?"

"Father is giving me more and more tasks to do whereas Frerin gets to play almost all the time. I know he's younger but even when I was his age, I had more to do! It just isn't _fair_!" With those words the young prince kicks a small stone into the water, watching the surface ripple and disturb the light reflected on it.

Dwalin still doesn't quite see why more tasks would make his friend a bad king and he says as much. He knows that Thorin is jealous of his younger brother at times, for Frerin has always been treated with less harshness even when doing something wrong. But he also knows that Thorin can never begrudge his brother his freedom for long; Frerin's laugh is too bright and his love for his bigger brother too large and too obvious to do so. It has to be something else. Thorin's voice is suddenly growing more quiet as he answers Dwalin's question.

"Doesn't it mean that Frerin would be a better king than me? I'm probably just not good enough, that's why they give me all those tasks to do..."

The tall boy doesn't quite know whether to bash the prince's against the stonen wall of the cavern or simply berate him for this astonishingly hard head of his.

"Have you never considered that it might be the other way round?"

Thorin frowns and sends him a questioning glance. Dwalin prays to their Maker for patience.

"Maybe they give you more work because they're confident that you can do it because you're already doing great?"

The prince positively gapes at Dwalin and it would be funny if it weren't somehow sad that the thought has never occurred to him before.

"I-...Do you really think so?" he asks with a slightly incredulous tone to his voice.

Dwalin sighs, now honestly considering the option to punch his friend in the face.

"Yes." The relief reflected by Thorin's expression makes him sigh again before he narrows his eyes at the grumbling sounds from the prince's stomach.

"Did you eat anything for lunch today?"

Shame flickers briefly over Thorin's face and his only answer is a slight shake of the head. When he is angry, he often forgets or refuses to eat, Dwalin knows; and so he tries to suppress a grin as he rummages in the folds of his clothes and takes out a small bundle which he places in front of Thorin.

The grin and gratitude setting his friend's features alight makes the small fight he had with Missus Ásta definitely worth it. In the end he has even managed to mangle two cookies from the chief of the kitchen which he now proudly presents to the young prince. Thorin takes one and leaves him the other, a token of his thanks for Dwalin that he is only too happy to accept.

*

The sun has almost set when the two of them approach the camp. They have been up since before sunrise, journeying the entire day to the village of men close at hand after a week's work at the forges and their legs and arms are beyond tired now. Dwalin and Thorin are carrying bundles of food with them, knowing how welcome they will be amongst their families. Dís is in the middle of a growth spurt now and could eat three times the amount of food they are able to offer her and Dwalin knows how much it pains Thorin that she can't eat her fill like she would have been able to were they still back in Erebor.

Dwalin, Balin, Fundin and Varna live in the house next to the royal family, their small settlement here in Dunland steadily growing since they have decided to stay here for a time less than two years ago. Several other families have followed them from the Iron Hills now, the newest two of them having arrived just over a week ago.

The two of them venture towards the settlement in companionable silence. They have never talked too much - not when they were children and now even less so. Today it's a good kind of silence, one that envelops them and makes them feel at ease and both of them are enjoying it. Dwalin knows all of its flavours now, from the brooding silence that is between them during Thorin's darkest moods to the easy-going stillness that speaks of utter momentary satisfaction and peace. Right now his friend seems to be content despite his tiredness - they have been paid almost fairly at the men's forges this week and therefore they have been able to buy more food than usual and even have some coin left over.

They can see the first lights of the village now, their yellow gleams warm and welcoming. It isn't exactly home, not like Erebor was and always would be; but it's a new beginning at least, a place that doesn't feel as strange to them anymore as the rest of middle-earth. Dwalin has already accepted it more than Thorin ever will, he knows; for his friend home will forever and always be the place where the throne stands that is his and his family's birthright. For Dwalin, home is where is family and, if he is honest with himself, Thorin are. But if the prince or his family will one day decide to reclaim the mountain he will follow them and do his best to aid them in the quest.

There are voices coming from the little make-shift building they pass on their right; Dwalin frowns and tries to remember the names of those living here, but it is one of the huts that the new families have just moved into and he can't recall all their names yet although he knows he should. A high-pitched voice that can only belong to a young dwarfling rings out through the door which is half open to let in the freshness of the summer evening.

"But I'm still hungry!"

"I'm sorry Kaia, but you can't eat anymore, this is all we have..."

The dwarrowdam's voice sounds tired, as if she has said sentences like this way too many times before.

"But amad..." The child is close to crying now, already choking on her words.

"Shhhhh." The rustle of fabric indicates that she is holding her daughter close, trying to stifle the rising sobs.

Dwalin looks at Thorin and sees the same resolution in his eyes that has dawned in his own mind. The prince carefully knocks and pushes the door completely open. The dwarrowdam and her daughter are alone, the widening of the older one's eyes indicating that she knows who has set foot on her doorstep.

"P-prince Thorin!" Her voice is nervous, she clearly hasn't expected him.

Dwalin can sense both Thorin's quiet amusement and exasperation. In Erebor he had been used to being greeted as royalty, set apart from most other folk. But such differences have mostly been lost with the fall of the mountain, at least for him. The fear and awe he now sees in some who are approaching them is more useless than anything else - hunger and hardship on the road do hardly make any difference in rank.

"Lady Lín." Of course Thorin remembers her name. He has never overly excelled in scholarly studies, but his memory for names and certain events is flawless. Probably a useful prerequisite for one of the royal line, Dwalin thinks, quietly thankful he himself is still several places removed from the throne.

She is blushing slightly as she sees them looking around the small house and at the still sobbing daughter perched on her arm. The young dwarfling has her mother's light brown hair and looks like she hasn't had a good meal in a while. Dwalin's heart clenches, remembering too many times that Dís and the other young ones of their group (Óin and Dori) had looked the same during their long time of travelling.

"I apologise for the disarray." the dwarrowdam murmurs quietly now, eyes cast to the floor. "My husband is out seeking work and selling the leatherwork I made. He won't return before two days hence, I'm afraid."

Dwalin knows how hard it is to admit that one lacks the coin to feed one's children; and from the looks of it, the dwarrowdam has given most of her own food to her daughter already. He exchanges a glance with Thorin and sees him nodding slightly, clearly harbouring similar thoughts.

He takes out one of the small bags of dried meat they bought earlier that day and sees Thorin remove one of the two sacks of flour from his packs. Lín steps back, clearly reluctant to take what is offered, especially since it is coming from the prince himself.

"Take it." Thorin tells her quietly. "If not for yourself, then for the little one. You are always welcome to repay us later, if you feel the need to, especially since there has been a thorough lack of good leather-workers here."

The light suddenly shining in the eyes of young Kaia as she regards the food is already worth it. They have enough coin left to replace what they have just given away and Dwalin is sure that Thorin would rather starve himself than seeing another young one hunger. He has never forgiven himself for having to watch his younger sister and brother almost starving on the road.

They leave the hut soon after the dwarrowdam has finally accepted the goods pressed onto her. Three weeks later two pairs of well-crafted and beautiful leather vambraces make their ways to Thorin and Dwalin and although the dwarrowdam insists they take it as a token of her gratitude, they both pay her fairly for the excellent work after subtracting the cost of the food, with the promise of recommending her to others and commissioning her again as soon as they have the coin to do so.

*

Dwalin can't quite remember how it started anymore. Maybe it was an offhand comment of Thorin's on how one time the warrior has managed to burn soup or Balin's slightly derisive snort indicating that he was the best cook of the group anyway. No matter the reason, he suddenly finds himself as part of a rather intense cooking competition of siblings versus siblings, not exactly facilitated by Dís' young whirlwinds running around and trying to cause as much chaos as possible.

They have quickly agreed that the losers would be the ones to have to clean the hearth and crockery in the end, and if not the only it is still the best reason for Dwalin to try and win this thing together with his brother.

"Fíli!" That is Thorin's voice, shouting at the young lad who is trying to inspect the contents of the big pot that Dís has heaved on their part of the stove not long ago. His sister swoops in with an expert move done hundreds of times before and grabs her oldest by the collar of his tunic, pulling him away from the slowly boiling water. Dwalin's eyes dart around and away from the knife beneath his fingers with which he's currently chopping up some potatoes to search for the younger of the two mischief-makers. Kíli is trying to climb up onto a chair that is perched dangerously close to where they have stored their weapons on a shelf, normally to keep them well out of reach of the dwarflings.

Balin notices his gaze and runs over to the young one, hands still dusted with flour from the dumplings he is making. A few moments later and Kíli sports two beautiful white handprints on his shirt and is safely deposited on the floor again together with his brother and toys.

Dwalin returns to his job, trying to keep an eye on what Dís and her brother are doing next to them. They still don't have the slightest idea how on earth they are going to decide the winners of their little contest although he suspects it might be Fíli's and Kíli's task in the end. The next few moments pass in rather competitive silence as both parties concentrate on their respective meals. It is only interrupted by the occasional snarled order, mostly from either Dís or Balin.

A sound somewhere between a shriek and a grunt disturbs the competitive atmosphere again and Dwalin turns his head just in time to see Thorin make one of the most comical expressions he has ever seen on his face - somewhere between sheer horror, astonishment and 'my sister will kill me'. The source for it becomes clear in a moment: there are actual flames coming up from the stove in front of him. At least Dís is quick enough to grab a thick blanket from the corner and smother the beginning fire with it.

Dwalin still remembers the one time when he, still a young dwarfling in Erebor, tried to douse an oil fire with water, just to be held back by his mother Varna in the last second, telling him that it would have the opposite effect. The stink of burnt food is now filling the room and Balin opens the door to the cold autumn air outside, which promptly leads to complaining from the two young dwarflings on the floor. By the time they are wrapped into additional blankets and the mess is cleaned up Dís has shouted at her brother long and loudly enough that the entire Ered Luin now likely knows that the king is also an 'incompetent fool of a brother' who is 'less help than a two-headed goat' when it comes to cooking.

Dwalin doubts that anyone, himself included most of the time, dares to talk to Thorin like that since Frerin is gone; and it does him good to know that Thorin still welcomes his sister's teasing and, on good days, even answers it with a smile. Today he even manages something akin to a slightly sheepish grin and an apologetic shrug that his sister answers with another not entirely serious glare.

Both Balin and him are so busy watching the two musing about what to do with their destroyed meal that they forget their own cooking for a moment. It is only an accident waiting to happen and of course the tragedy doesn't take long to occur: Fíli, unnoticed in the current confusion, has advanced to the portion of the stove that is the Fundin's sons' domain and is trying to reach the pot with the dumplings inside. Small dwarrow that he is, he isn't tall enough to see inside yet - so he ends up tipping it over in the attempt to catch a glance, spilling its contents over both himself and the floor.

At least there is no boiling water in it anymore, but his cries nonetheless are loud enough to wake up even the dead. Kíli joins in a moment later for the sole reason that his brother is crying and whatever Fíli does, Kíli does too. This time, cleaning the mess up takes longer - Thorin busies himself with caring for the two dwarflings and calming them down, working wonders with his abilities as an uncle. Dwalin knows he can't be just an uncle to them forever; one day he will have to be the king, too. But for now, whilst they are still little he can allow himself a little indulgence and to let the burden on his shoulders be eased by his nephew's carefree laughter.

Dís and Dwalin are cleaning up the mess that has been made on the floor and stove and Balin tries to salvage what he can of the meal they have been preparing. When they finally take score of the damage done, it becomes clear that there isn't enough food left to comfortably feed six of them. At least they have enough coin by now that the loss of food doesn't shake their finances too badly, but the mood is still souring quickly and Dwalin can practically feel the scowl forming on Thorin's face, close to berating them all for the idea of having a little cooking competition, so foolishly wasting what they have and in the end, blaming himself for letting his part burn.

The warrior sighs and decides take it on himself to mend the situation.

"You should bathe the lads." he observes with a glance to Fíli who is nestled on his uncle's arm and still looks fairly stricken about his earlier mishap.

"Yes, that sounds like a good idea." Dís chimes in, knowing well that Thorin has the least trouble getting the two of them in contact with water and that it also provides an excellent distraction from when his thoughts threaten to turn dark and against himself again. She practically ushers the three of them out of the room and towards the bath.

"I will make dinner." Dwalin states calmly as they disappear out of the door, Fíli already announcing excitedly that he is going to make his uncle a magnificent foam-beard, a claim that is dutifully echoed by his little brother.

Balin's and Dís' eyebrows go up at Dwalin's statement, knowing well that he isn't exactly the best cook around. Apart from...

"Pancakes?" Balin asks his younger brother and Dwalin nods. The warrior's pancakes are almost legendary and a rare feat since he seldomly takes the time to cook.

And so it comes that Dwalin, son of Fundin, is unanimously declared the winner of the cooking competition by two very enthusiastic dwarflings whose dishevelled wet hair proves as resistant to braiding as it always does, even to their uncle's nimble fingers.

*

Rivendell is an odd sort of place: even the dwarves have to admit that it is rather peaceful, but at the same time it is so terribly _elvish_ \- fragile, airy structures everywhere and strange glances from its inhabitants that seem to be drilling into their backs wherever they go. Dwalin is half-tempted to leave on the spot but he knows that they have to be at least polite enough to stay for dinner.

If you can call it that.

He wonders if the elves are deliberately paying them insult by not offering them meat or if they truly don't eat any. Either way, he has the dim feeling that he is going to walk away from this meal hungrier than when they came and he fervently hopes that Bombur still has some of those sausages stored in his backpack somewhere.

His eyes flit over to Thorin who is sitting with the unbearably smug creature that is apparently the lord of this house and the grey wizard. He has never really envied Thorin his position, especially when he thinks about the numerous boring meetings and great dinners that his friend has to attend in his function as king. During many of those he has acted as a bodyguard, standing in close distance to their regent and tasked with protecting him.

Then and now, Thorin doesn't exactly look happy and eats very little, if anything at all. The warrior can almost see the exasperation rolling in waves off him, especially when the elf examines his sword, and has to suppress a quiet snort when the king excuses himself from his table companions to walk over to his own company. Bofur starts a song then and from there it all goes what is probably downhill from the viewpoint of the elves. The dwarves, however, are enjoying themselves immensely. And if they are a bit more vicious and have worse aim than usual in their food fight, well, who would notice?

Dwalin's hopes are fulfilled and Bombur has indeed saved some sausages at the bottom of his pack that they fry and devour with joy in the slowly falling darkness of the evening after apparently upsetting the elves' sensibilities with their bath in a fountain. Dwalin feels a shiver of uneasiness run through him when Balin and Thorin go off to the meeting with the elven lord and the grey wizard alone, leaving him and the others behind. He feels uncomfortable leaving Thorin alone here without his protection although even he has to admit that the chances of the king being attacked here are rather small. Nonetheless, he would have liked to keep Thorin company if only to have another set of eyes on the elf.

Their burglar has disappeared too and Dwalin can only wonder where he went off to. He has seemed very impressed by the elven residence and, other than the company, he doesn't seem to harbour any other feelings towards elves than sheer admiration and awe. Dwalin resolves to ask his brother to tell him of the day Erebor fell; maybe that will help in making him think a little more critical about their current hosts.

Balin returns after a while, a look of both anger and grudging respect in his eyes. He tells them that the Lord Elrond has been able to read the map, yes, and that they have to be at the mountain on Durin's Day. But he says no more than that and Dwalin knows it's useless to try and get his brother to talk; his stubbornness can at times almost rival Thorin's.

Speaking of the king, Thorin is still nowhere in sight and Dwalin slowly begins to worry as the evening draws on and there is no sign of him. In the end, remembering well how Thorin's plate was almost full when he vacated his seat at dinner, he puts a few sausages and some bread aside and wraps them in a piece of cloth before venturing out to find his friend.

He has to search for a while but finally he finds Thorin on a low bench next to a small pond where there is some bare rock still visible beneath all the plants. The light the king has brought with him is reflected on the pond's still surface and now joined by the second one that Dwalin carries. The warrior knows why his friend has chosen this place; it reminds both of them of the small cave in Erebor they have visited so many times as children and there is an odd sort of peace in the memory of the place now.

Thorin doesn't look up when he approaches, but he does no move to send him away either. They are so intimately familiar with each other's movements by now that he has to know it's Dwalin from the sound of his steps alone. The warrior sits down next to him and says nothing at first. Then, when Thorin still doesn't move or otherwise indicates that he has noticed his presence, he finally grumbles:

"Have you eaten anything this evening?"

The slightly bashful expression on Thorin's face is all the answer he needs and he nudges his little package with the food closer to the king.

"Bombur found some sausages." he explains and is rewarded by the shadow of a rueful smile playing around his friend's lips as he unfolds the cloth. From the way he stares at the food Dwalin knows that Thorin isn't truly hungry, but at least he has enough sense left this time to still take what is offered. The quest is propelling him on and it both worries and relieves Dwalin. The haunted look in his eyes in the months leading up to the quest was worse than his feverish desire and pushing on towards the mountain now is. The warrior can see that his king is teetering on the edge and hopes he has enough strength to keep them both from falling. For if one of them does, the other will too.

"Thank you."

Thorin's voice is slightly muffled from the food in his mouth, but the words are nonetheless easy to understand. Dwalin grins and puts a hand on his shoulder in wordless acknowledgement. He want to know what Thorin has heard that gives his eyes such a dark shimmer, but he still refrains from asking, sensing that somehow, this isn't the right time. But he is there for him and he knows that Thorin welcomes his wordless support with whatever happened.

They smoke in companionable silence later, watching the stars and, despite where they are, despite all that's happened and all that is going to happen, they feel oddly at peace.

*

In the over a hundred years that they haven't been here nothing has truly changed in the mountain and yet everything is different. Dwalin has observed it before when they looked through their old quarters and he found his parent's jewellery: how alien everything seems in its familiarity. The feeling hasn't left him since, not even now when he walks the hallways leading to treasury for what must be the twentieth time today.

There is an uncertainty in his steps that has never been there before, not even when he and his brother had returned from Mirkwood, having to tell Thorin that the quest has been for naught and his father vanished; this is something that is unfamiliar to him, a feeling of being almost afraid of what he is going to see. He has been angry with Thorin before, has shared almost all known emotions with him; but never has he truly been afraid of him. Not until now.

It had started with small things first - the refusal to eat, rude rebuttals of company members who didn't help looking for the Arkenstone. Soon, however, it has become clear that it is much more than just a mere appreciation for the treasure. Dwalin is quickly reminded of Thrór in his last days before the mountain fell and he isn't alone in it, sees the same dread in his brother's eyes. They all feel the pull of the gold - Dwalin knows he is much more short-tempered than usual and he sees the hollowness in the other's faces, knows they hear the whisper of the gold and the Arkenstone in their minds.

He opens the door to the treasury and tries to steel himself for what is to come. Thorin is sitting on the steps of a stair, his bleeding fingertips proof of another night spent sifting through the gigantic treasure. He is brooding, his hair falling forward to cover his face, unkempt and wild. The king looks like he usually does only during a fever, cheeks hollow and sunken, a sheen of sweat of his face and dark rings under the feverish emptiness of his eyes.

"Thorin?" Dwalin tries to make his voice soft and untouched of the ice that is slowly closing around his heart. _Like approaching a mad animal_ , his mind supplies rather unhelpfully.

The king doesn't react and Dwalin hasn't really expected him to. With a quiet sigh he slowly walks closer, taking care to make enough noise so that Thorin is sure to hear his approach. He finally looks up when Dwalin is close enough to touch him, eyeing him with wary and unfamiliarly cold eyes that make Dwalin shudder.

"What is it?" he snarls, not even using Dwalin's name.

"You need to eat."

The warrior thrusts out his arm at him, the last of their provisions carefully wrapped up in a bundle in his hand. Most of the company has shared a small meal earlier and they have left portions for those who weren't there. The last time it was Fíli and Kíli who have tried to convince their uncle to eat some food, but they have retreated, terrified, after he had yelled at them with a ferociousness and cruelty they have never known from him.

Thorin looks at the food with disdain and at Dwalin with suspicion.

"So you have been eating when you could have been searching for the Arkenstone?" His voice is a deep, angry growl.

The warrior, however, refuses to budge, refuses to believe that the Thorin he knows, the one he _loves_ , would know nothing but anger over such a thing towards his One. So he faces his king's glare squarely, trying to keep his own temper in check that is already bubbling dangerously close to the surface. The temptation to dive into the gold in front of his feet and start searching again becomes stronger by the minute.

"Yes." he answers. "And you should, too."

Thorin sneers, an ugly expression spreading over his face that tears directly into Dwalin's heart. His king is standing up now, eyes blazing in their fever.

"Go back to work!" he barks. Dwalin remembers over a hundred years of being together and suddenly all he wants to hear is that special note of tenderness in Thorin's voice reserved only for him. But there isn't a single gentle spark in Thorin's eyes now and he feels anger rising up in the back of his throat.

"No." he says, his voice still remarkably calm. "You will eat first."

"Would you dare to defy your king?" Thorin's voice is barely more than a hiss and now it's Dwalin's turn to snarl in wordless frustration. His lover rarely reminds them of the difference in their standing and the loyalty the soldier owes his sworn king. And every time he does, it hurts. Especially now when Thorin seems to have forgotten that they have ever been anything else than subject and ruler.

Dwalin drops his bundle of food and with a growl he is over the king and slams him into a wall. It is clear that the king hasn't quite anticipated such a move; usually they are evenly matched but in his weakened, sleep-deprived state Dwalin overpowers him. One of his arms is lodged against Thorin's throat and limiting his air supply, the other grasping Thorin's hands trying to slap at him. He uses his larger weight to his advantage, bearing down on him and desperately trying to catch a moment in which Thorin might actually _listen_ to him.

"Thorin!" He bellows his name, trying to put both his anger and his love into this one word. It is not enough to rip him out of his madness, but at least enough to make him cease his struggle for a moment.

"Eat. Sleep. Then we will talk and help you search for the jewel."

The wildness in the king's eyes hardens at the words.

"So that one of you might steal it from me when I sleep?" he shouts, his still mighty voice reverberating through the mountain.

Dwalin is momentarily stunned that Thorin would ever even consider such a traitorous deed happening in their company. They have followed him through goblin caves and spider fights, through elf dungeons and into the maws of a dragon and yet he dares to utter such nonsense?

With a quick movement, the warrior brings up his fist and lands a solid blow to Thorin's temple, steadying the king as his legs give out under him. Thorin is still conscious, but appears dazed for the moment and Dwalin uses the opportunity to lower him to the ground and against the wall, fetching the bundle of food and pressing it into his hands. He still hasn't lost hope that the Thorin he knows will return and become the King Under the Mountain he was meant to be. He sees to it that his friend is eating and leaves the treasury as soon as he knows that he won't throw the food away.

His footsteps echo in the empty corridor, their sound telling him he should have stayed and tried to do what he can to pull his lover back from his madness. Dwalin swears to himself that he will try to do so later, when he has collected himself enough to face Thorin again. He just hopes it won't be too late.

*

It has been one year.

One year since they stormed out of the mountain to battle the orcs, since they joined forces with elves and men, since they have truly reclaimed Erebor. One year since he has carried Thorin from the battlefield, bleeding out on the corpses and rock beneath them. One year since his heart has died.

So much has changed in this year and yet so little. The world still seems strangely empty without blue eyes, dark hair and lips pressing into his and without the boisterous laughter of the young ones. Dwalin still wakes up at night, his mind tricking him with the phantom of arms wrapped around him and fingers caressing the line of his jaw. Sometimes he walks into a room and calls out Thorin's name and only when nobody answers does reality catch up with him. He often finds himself staring into thin air until Dís or his brother shake him out of it, lost in his thoughts and memories. He has only been down to their tombs once since they have laid them to rest and had ended up shouting at the stonen likeness of his One, pounding against the walls in frustration until he had slid down a wall with tears on his face, blood on his hands and emptiness in his soul.

There is a big feast planned this evening to honour those fallen at the Battle of Five Armies; on the morrow they will pay their respects together with the elves and men that have fought at their side, both Thranduil and Bard journeying out to Erebor to meet King Dáin for the occasion. But tonight belongs only to them, tonight is for the friends and families to mourn their dead and celebrate that which their sacrifice has given them. Dwalin knows that Dáin has asked Dís for a speech, a task that she has neither accepted nor declined, agreeing to say no more than a few words in her brother's and sons' honour.

The warrior knows he should participate in the feast but he has avoided every social gathering since they have died. He seeks the loneliness of his own room, the company of ghosts somehow more desirable than that of the living. He knows he should have come the many times that the company has invited him; they are all mourning for the king they have lost and stories help heal their wounds. None of them, however, has lost their One in addition to their friend and king as well and so they have given Dwalin the space they know he needs.

First Balin, then Dís have been the only ones who have dared to break his self-imposed solitude. Balin has always been at his side, patient and quiet, despite the heaviness of his own loss. Dwalin knows he could talk to his brother anytime, although he has not yet chosen to do so. The offer alone is precious to him already. Dís, on the other hand, doesn't offer him talk as much as physical activity - they still spar a lot and he remembers well the one time they have found one of Thorin's old practice weapons when packing their own away and the surge of memories finally bringing tears to his eyes; Dís' arms wrapped around him and her own tears hot and wet on the fabric over his chest, whispering in a broken voice that no one but him has been allowed to hear: 'I miss them.'

It is her who comes to his room now as well, not long before the dinner. Her hair is already piled on top of her head in an elaborate up-do, although she is still dressed in a simple tunic. The braids from her beard that she had been wearing throughout their time in the Blue Mountains have disappeared, the dark hair cropped short as a sign for her grief. It is unlikely she will ever grow it again; just like her brother in their exile she will wear it like this for the rest of her days, a living reminder of all that she has lost and that has been sacrificed to regain their home. Dwalin is keeping his hair as he always has, although there are new tattoos adorning his head now and he is wearing one of Thorin's ear clasps, forged by his own hand, on his left ear. Its twin has been buried with his One as is the custom. Dís is still wearing part of the gift to her husband as well, the silver hair clasp firmly attached to her dark strands, next to the beads Víli made her.

"You should come tonight." Her voice is quiet and bears no accusation.

"I don't think I should." Dwalin's answer is equally calm, a low rumble as he is focusing his attention on the two knives in his hand, the hilts of which he is currently engraving. He hasn't been smithing since they have left the Blue Mountains - the only time he tried, he thought he had heard the echo of Thorin's hammer every time he swung his own and smelled the sharp tang of his sweat in the air. He had dropped his tools and has rarely entered the forges since. The memories are still too near and likely won't leave him soon.

"And why?" Dís has her brother's relentlessness and she knows she is the only one who Dwalin will allow to dig around in his emotions. The warrior thinks a while before giving her his answer.

"Because if it weren't for my failure, they might still live. Because I don't want to see the pity in the others' eyes when they look upon me. And because I'm afraid I won't make for merry company tonight." Of course this isn't all of it; he fears the memories might overwhelm him, thoughts of earlier feasts in grand halls where the laughter of those he is missing has filled the air.

"You know, they always said that my brother has inherited the collective stubbornness of the Line of Durin, but somehow I think that you received a good portion of it too."

Dwalin feels the edges of his lips tug up at her statement. If pure stubbornness could have slain a dragon, Smaug would have been dead a hundred times over before they even started on the quest. Dís continues to speak, her eyes filled with warmth as she walks closer and puts a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm loathe to have others pity me as well and the prospect of hearing them speak about my brothers and my sons as if they have long passed in the realm of legend already fills me with both anger and dread. And I keep asking myself if everything would've been different had I just come on the quest." She kneels down in front of where he is sitting now, his tools lying forgotten on the table.

"But you, Dwalin, son of Fundin, haven't failed anyone, even if you will never believe so. And never will I or anyone else blame you for what happened to Thorin, Fíli and Kíli. _He_ would want you to come and defy those who whisper that the once mighty warrior Dwalin has turned weak in the wake of his king's death."

If anything, it is her last statement that truly spurs him on. He knows he won't be able to look Thorin in the eye when they meet in the Halls of their Maker should he let the rumours continue. Dwalin can almost hear the gently mocking tone in Thorin's voice when he teases him for hiding, the spark in his eyes that would accompany his words. Dís' word's cannot truly lift the weight from his heart - she might have forgiven him but he will never forgive himself for not protecting them and not dying with them either. But there is still a spark of defiance left within him, a shadow of the warrior's spirit that has spurned him on for all of his life. It is timid and small and will likely never be fully rekindled, but it's there.

"I will come." he finally murmurs and Dís smiles, the expression so achingly similar to her brother's, but always given much more freely. She leaves a small jar wrapped in a cloth on his table and when Dwalin looks at it he feels the hint of a smile of his own spread over his face. It is filled with cookies, ones of the same make that he has eaten in the small cavern together with Thorin so many years ago. Their taste in his mouth fills him with both emptiness and warmth.


	4. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This thing fits more in the bookverse version of the events after Azanulbizar wherein Thráin disappears much later after the battle, on a quest to Erebor of his own, taking several warriors (Dwalin and Balin amongst them) with him. 
> 
> **Prompt:** Family  
>  **Rating:** G/T  
>  **Warnings:** angst

"Dís?"

Thorin's voice sounded tired when he stepped into the room, a heaviness in his step and bearing that his sister had rarely seen there. She had always been able to read him like a book and was no stranger to his black moods. Now, however, there was an expression in his eyes that almost frightened her in its desperation. She put the little piece of mending she was doing aside and stood up to properly face her brother, her hand on his shoulder.

"What is it, Thorin?"

"Balin, Dwalin and the others have returned."

Something settled deep in Dís' guts at the statement, something heavy and bitter. She willed her hand on Thorin's shoulder to be still and stop trembling as she asked the next question.

"And father?"

Thorin shook his head, slowly, as if a great weight were attached to his mind.

"He's vanished." he whispered. "They searched for him, but had to give up when they ran out of supplies and were continuously attacked by orcs."

"Thorin..." Dís stepped closer and drew him into an embrace, for her own sake as much as for his. Her thoughts seemed to be stuck and racing at the same time as the full implications of what he had just said unfolded in her mind. Her brother was no longer the prince and heir, a title he had stubbornly held onto since Thráin had departed on his quest, but king now. True, in the last decades he had already been king in almost all but name, mostly ruling in his father's stead who had withdrawn himself more and more from life and family alike after the tragedy of Azanulbizar. Now, however, it was official that her brother was king and Dís was aware of the burden it would place on both his and her shoulders - for Thorin to rule and for her to produce heirs, since she was certain that Thorin would never have any of his own.

Her brother was still strangely quiet and barely moved when she put her arms around him, like he had already turned into stone. She feared for him that moment, and had to resist the urge to hug him closer. He was the last one of her family still there - if he would disappear now like their father had, she knew it would break her apart. Thráin had always hid behind his kingship as if behind a wall and she knew Thorin was in similar danger.

Dís put her hands onto his cheeks and forced her brother to meet her eyes. The darkness in his gaze frightened her, but she knew his moods better than anyone, save Dwalin maybe.

"Don't leave me now, Thorin." she whispered quietly.

The dwarrowdam could feel her brother's hands trembling slightly as they finally moved to return her previous embrace. His fingers clenched the fabric of her tunic and she could slowly feel the impenetrable wall he always kept around his emotions breaking down.

He sighed and buried his face deep in her hair, breathing in the familiar scent and steadying himself with the firm and reliable presence of his sister. They had lived through so much together, saw their home burning and crush their mother, their grandfather and father disappear and their brother perish on the battlefield. Somehow they had always managed to survive by clinging onto each other and their friends surrounding them, giving each other the strength and support they needed.

SometimesThorin hated himself for thinking that there would be no space for him once Dís married the dwarf whom she had given her heart. It felt to him as if his sister was being ripped away from his side, lost in a completely different way to him than Frerin, but still lost if she decided to move out and in with her husband. He had wished Dís happiness since he had first laid eyes on the tiny baby in a crib and even more so since they had lost their home and family. He knew he would have to let her go and the only parts of him that wished her to stay with him were nothing but pure selfishness; he would never ask her to do so. He wiped those thoughts from his mind, forcing himself to hold her more tightly.

"I won't." he said gently. "I promise."

His sister nodded, the promise only reassuring her partly as he well knew. He just hoped that time would prove him right.

There was a knock on the door and he almost jumped at its sound, not having expected visitors so late at night. Carefully entangling himself from his sibling he walked the short distance to the entrance, giving Dís a moment to compose herself.

Thinking back, he should have expected them. Balin and Dwalin were standing outside, looking weary and tired from their quest despite a change of clothes and a bath. Thorin noticed that Dwalin was avoiding his gaze as the two of them stepped inside.

"Have you eaten yet?" he asked with a glance at their slightly hollow faces.

"No." Balin's answer was short and to the point and it spoke of hardship on the road for the past few days.

Thorin just nodded and stepped into the small kitchen to rekindle the dying fire in the hearth and warm up some of the leftover stew from the evening. After a few moments he heard Dís' and Balin's voices in quiet conversation from their main room. The sound of heavy footsteps approached and moments later Dwalin stepped through the doorframe, quietly shutting the door behind him.

They hadn't had any time for intimacy when the few warriors who had accompanied Thráin on his quest had returned. Thorin had been outside to take care of their dwindling wood supplies (almost a mirror image to the evening before the small company had left so many months ago) when their small party had approached. It was already dark so he hadn't immediately noticed that his father was missing, but it had been clear from the faces of those he could see that they brought no happy tidings.

"My king." Balin's voice had been formal when he greeted him with a small bow. The words hadn't even registered properly with him at first. Then the realisation had struck him like a lightning bolt and for a single moment he had felt the desire to give in to the weak feeling in his knees and just drop to the ground. The rational part of his mind had always known that his father and his company had been unlikely to return but to have it confirmed...

He had greeted them with all formality, asking of them no more than a very short report of what had happened. They would talk further in the morning. Dwalin had remained quiet throughout the entire exchange, his eyes meeting Thorin's only once and looking away almost immediately again.

The relief that both sons of Fundin seemed to be unhurt and the joy of seeing his lover again after months of absence was still swirling in Thorin's head together with the dread of what was to come the next day when he looked at the tall shape still leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen and watching him work. Neither of them quite knew what to say and the silence between them stretched until it seemed to devour their thoughts. It was Dwalin who finally broke it, his voice hoarse when spoke.

"I'm sorry." he said quietly. Thorin stepped closer, trying to catch his gaze.

"I'm sorry." the warrior repeated once more. "I have failed him. I have failed you. I have failed your family -"

His voice faltered as Thorin closed the distance between them and put his hands on Dwalin's cheeks, forcing him to finally meet his gaze. The awkwardness between them was still there, but the tall dwarf didn't flinch back at his king's touch. Thorin hoped that his new standing wouldn't weigh too heavily on his friend's mind - Dwalin should know that between them, things would always stay the same no matter the weight of his new role.

He tried to put those emotions in his voice, tried to push his own pain aside for a moment to soothe the ragged tears in his lover's heart.

"No." he simply said, putting as much weight in the single word as he could. "Dwalin, listen. Whatever happened there, I know you, your brother and the others gave your best. My father..."

Thorin closed his eyes and swallowed, refusing to let his voice appear as broken as he felt.

"My father never expected to return from this journey, I think. His burden is mine to bear now, as it was always meant to be. You have nothing to apologise for and I have nothing to forgive."

He opened his eyes again just to see a brief flash of pain travel across Dwalin's face. If simple words could mend all that was broken it would be easy, but he knew that the events of the misbegotten quest wouldn't leave his friend for a while and likely follow him into his dreams. Just like his father's haunted face of the weeks before had already found its way into Thorin's own nightmares. He thought about Deathless, his family's sword that was still stored away safely in their house. Just like Thrór before, Thráin hadn't taken it with him when he had set out on his journey. This, more than anything else had told Thorin about how little hope his father had for the success of his quest.

Dwalin didn't reply, but pulled Thorin closer and gently brought their foreheads together. They were both trying to draw strength from the touch, reassuring themselves that everything would work out well, that this was yet another obstacle in life for them to conquer together. Despite the weariness of his mind, Thorin's body couldn't help but respond to finally feel Dwalin's touch again. Their kiss was slow, almost careful and for a single moment nothing existed in his mind besides the taste of his lover's breath on his skin. Their touches were still hesitant as if of new lovers, but the reassurance flowing with the warmth between them helped in easing the burden.

The scent of the stew growing stronger by the moment ripped them out of the embrace and Dwalin chuckled softly as Thorin sprinted back to their hearth to keep the food from burning. Balin's and Dwalin's late evening meal was accompanied by a quiet conversation about everything that had changed in Ered Luin during their absence. They didn't talk about what had happened on their journey despite the odd story of how at one point one of their warriors had woken up the camp at night with a shout, insisting he saw orc scouts which, after closer inspections, simply turned out to be a bunch of peculiarly shaped rocks.

Furthermore, neither of them mentioned the weight Thorin's new role would add to his shoulders. He slowly started to realise his new kind of loneliness. Despite his father only seldomly occupying himself with his people's daily needs in the last years, he had still been a source for information and advice to Thorin, someone to fall back on to in case all else should fail. Now he was truly alone, the burden of decision-making his and his only. The pain of it eased slightly when he looked at Balin's and his sister's face, knowing they would always be there to offer him advice and make him see reason should he lose himself.

And then there was always Dwalin. The brothers resolved to stay in their house for the night, tired of their own cold place where a thin layer of dust had gathered in their absence. They retired quickly - it was late and tomorrow they would have to face their people and announce that the kingship had passed from father to son. However, despite what the next day would bring, tonight was theirs and theirs alone.

Thorin and Dwalin spent most of the night relearning each other, mapping out the stories of their lives burned into their skin by ink and scars, gently restoring the familiarity between their bodies that they had been missing for so long. They fell asleep holding onto each other in pure desperation, drowning in the warmth of skin and trying to tone out the whispers in their mind that told them the world was crumbling to pieces once more.

Dwalin dropped off into sleep soon, exhausted from the day and his travels. It was harder for Thorin to find rest and he spent hours looking at the dwarrow next to him, drinking in the sight of his face and the feeling of his skin under his fingers. He thought of Balin in their house and Dís in the adjoining room, doubtlessly having trouble to fall asleep as well and a wave of fierce protectiveness welled up in him. He would not let anyone of his family, in blood as well as in feeling, suffer the same fate his father and grandfather had endured anymore. He would be their king and, in doing so, protect them all, cost it what it may.

Dwalin grumbled in his sleep, his fingers unconsciously tightening around Thorin's and the king soothed him with a gentle kiss to the forehead.

Yes, he would protect them.


	5. AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU version where Thorin's madness is even more devastating and the BoFA has a different outcome. Not exactly a happy fic, sorry.
> 
>  **Prompt:** AU  
>  **Rating:** T/M  
>  **Warnings:** violence, blood, angst, survivor's guilt, gold sickness, character death, AU

There were six of them, three wargs and three riders, slowly closing in on him. Thorin snarled and lifted his blade higher, the trusted weight of Orcrist giving him strength. The elven king had returned the sword to him after the battle and if his own heart had been able to feel anything, he thought it might have been gratitude at Thranduil's actions for the first time in his life. Thorin knew that he barely stood a chance against the orcs and their beasts, not when all of them would attack at the same time. But maybe this was what he had always wanted. His soul had been dead ever since the battle, so it would only be fair that his body finally followed.

_"Thorin! Thorin listen to me!"_

_But he had pushed him away, not heeding the dwarrow's voice who claimed to be his friend, not heeding_ anybody's _voice. The only thought on his mind was of the Arkenstone, the one jewel that had haunted his dreams ever since they had set foot into the mountain. They needed to find it, needed to sort through the riches that were finally his again so that all the world could see who was King Under the Mountain._

Thorin gripped his sword more tightly. He had been gone from the mountain for months, had left the day after he had passed the mantle of kingship on to Fíli, having instructed him in the task for two years. Nobody had tried to hold him back, although the gaze from Dís' eyes still haunted his dreams at night. The lad (for he would never be able to think of Fíli otherwise, despite him having reached maturity a while ago) would do well, he knew. He would likely be a better king than he himself could have ever hoped to be after destroying almost everything he held dear. Especially now, that the one person always holding him upright besides his sister and her nephews was gone, slain not only by orcs on the battlefield but also by his own madness.

_Thorin felt the halfling squirm under his grip as he held him over the battlements. But there was nothing but all-consuming anger inside his mind and the crushing feeling of having been betrayed by someone he trusted. He was about to throw the burglar down and see his body break on the rocks below when a hand gripped his shoulder._

_He turned around with a snarl, tossing the halfling aside where he remained stunned on the ground. With a movement honed through decades of training and fighting he shook off the hand and brought out his knife in the same moment, stopping his weapon no more than a hair's breadth away from piercing his attacker's throat. Thorin could barely hear the gasps rising up around him as his gaze, hard as steel, locked with that of the one who had dared to approach him so carelessly. Grey eyes stared into his, shocked and hurt in ways beyond measure._

There was a scuffle between the orcs now, as they were likely discussing who would get the honour of killing the one who had given their race so much trouble. Thorin smiled grimly, without a trace of joy in it; if they decided not to attack together but come at him one by one he might even stand a chance. Though a part of his heart might secretly crave death, he would not throw himself into its maws willingly. He would keep on fighting as long as his body allowed, take down as many as possible of those that had ripped so much from him.

_"Thorin..."_

_The dwarrow's voice was barely more than a whisper and Thorin had trouble hearing it against the roaring in his head._ Kill him, _something seemed to mutter into his ears and his grip around the weapon tightened, etching it closer to skin and drawing a few drops of blood. The bald dwarf didn't move and Thorin was confused; the dwarrow in front of him was tall and a seasoned warrior at that as he could vaguely recall from clouded memories. It should have been easy for him, even now, to break free and fight him. But he did nothing of the sort, only repeated the one word in a voice that couldn't have been more broken if the body it came from had lain shattered on the ground._

The first orc charged at him, a terrible cry on his lips as his beast shortened the distance between them in pouncing leaps. Thorin's eyes narrowed and he lowered himself into a crouch, ready to take on his two attackers. He escaped the snapping jaws of the beast by less than a hand's breadth and jumped to the side, away from the descending blade of the orc on its back. In the same motion he used his own sword to slice deeply into both of the warg's front legs. The animal went down with a howl, unable to stand or draw itself up again. The orc was flung to the ground and Thorin used the moment to bury Orcrist in the warg's head before twirling around to meet his attacker's charge head on.

 _Memories flared up in his mind and for a moment his head hurt as his gaze travelled down to the tattooed hands of the dwarrow in front of him. Suddenly he_ remembered _, remembered those hands caressing his jaw, sliding down over his chest, intertwining his fingers with his own. The thoughts were batted aside by an invisible hand, the door to them slammed shut as quickly as it had opened. Thorin's hand, however, was trembling now, drawing another drop of blood from Dwalin's throat._ Dwalin, Dwalin, Dwalin _, the name echoed in his mind, carrying with it a faint whiff of recognition. He wasn't paying any attention to the commotion behind him as two dwarves were holding back a third one, his forked white beard quivering as he fought against the grip of the others._

_Those grey eyes met his again and Thorin gasped for breath, the dagger falling from his limb fingers as recognition crushed his mind about what he had done and what he had been about to do, warring there with the desire to punish all those who threatened him and his riches. And then it was over and the clarity that followed was crueller than any madness could have ever been._

The orc had yowled when his beast had died and threw himself at Thorin with all his might now. The creature's blade was a curved thing with cruel edges to it, but both it and the orc himself were no match for Thorin's skill and he killed him quickly, black blood splattering his coat as he slashed open his attacker's chest. Accustomed to wandering the wild, he had rarely starved throughout the past months, keeping his body well fed and exercised. He still remembered the moment of hesitation as he drew closer to Beorn's lands after weeks of wandering around Mirkwood, the promise of a safe bed and provisions tempting him for a moment. But he had shed the sentiments as quickly as they had appeared in his thoughts and made for the mountains instead. He was here to drown his emptiness in blood, not in honey and cream.

_Dwalin had stepped back and away from Thorin, his eyes the only parts of him that betrayed the pain surging through his soul. Thorin wanted to shout his name, wanted to beg for his forgiveness, but he could do nothing besides standing there, the trembling of his hands slowly taking over his body. After a last glance at him Dwalin had turned around and stepped back inside the mountain and Thorin had found himself unable to follow him. Balin walked after his brother a few moments later, sparing Thorin not a single glance. None of his company had dared to say a word, unsure if the madness that had befallen their leader was truly gone._

_Thorin had finally left them, withdrawing into the deepest caverns of his home where nobody would be able to find him, but staying well away from the gold. He had sworn himself he would talk to Dwalin, would right things between them, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to do so just yet. And when the sound of battle penetrated the walls of the mountain, it was already too late._

The two remaining orc riders had obviously learned from the fate of their companion and held back for a second before both charging at him at the same time. For a moment Thorin wished he still had his bow but it had been broken beyond repair in an earlier fight and he hadn't had the time or patience yet to fashion a new one. With a quick movement he drew one of his knives and threw it at one of the approaching wargs, hitting the beast in the eye with as much luck as skill.

The second rider, however, was over him before he could bring Orcrist into the right position and repeat the little trick he had pulled before. Just a few breaths too slow maybe, but he knew that those moments could as well have been ages on the battlefield. Thorin had enough time to evade the warg's sharp teeth, but its rider's blade caught him in the shoulder and a scream ripped from his throat when he felt the iron bounce off bone beneath the furs and lightly armoured coat he was wearing.

_His entire company was assembled when Thorin stepped out in front of them, leading them into war. Dwalin was amongst them, but he avoided his eyes as Thorin's gaze was travelling over them all, taking in each and every one of their faces before he lead them into what could very well be the death of all of them. No reassuring pats on the back from Dwalin like in countless battles before, no careful hands helping him to put on his armour, no tenderness before violence this time - just the calm professionalism of a soldier in Dwalin's gaze now, his face hard as stone. He would do his duty for his king, but nothing beyond. The numbness spreading through Thorin at the realisation was worse than any physical pain._

Right arm almost useless now Thorin changed his blade into his left hand, quietly grateful for the rigorous training that had ensured he could fight equally well no matter which side he used. He brought Orcrist down in a mighty arc that severed the orc's hand, sending the limb and the blade spinning away on the ground and buried his own sword deeply in the warg's neck. The beast let out a howl before it plummeted to the ground, it's rider shrieking in pain. Thorin took another step towards him, ignored the small knife that the orc seemingly seemed to draw from nowhere and buried Orcrist deep in its stomach. With a last bout of strength the creature in front of him slashed the knife in the direction of his face and it was all Thorin could do to stumble back. The weapon's tip still drew a fiery line above his brow and Thorin bit back a second scream as pain followed in its wake like a hissing snake.

_The battle was violent and long, the likes of which none of them had seen since Azanulbizar. Thorin felt himself caught in the familiar frenzy, his arms moving back and forth, body reverting to its most basic state and relying solely on instinct to keep him alive. And yet something was different - the familiar presence in his back was still there, yes, but it was heavy and distant, not the closeness of another soul bound to his. And in the fray Thorin kept looking out for two heads, brown and golden, assured himself that his nephews were alright as often as he could._

Blood was running down his face, hot and wet, and clouding the sight on his ride side. He stumbled back, his own breathing loud in his ears, a wave of tiredness surging through him. He dimly realised that he could barely feel his right arm anymore and that the ground had started to become slick from his own blood and that of his opponents. Opponent...a thought was nagging at him, tried to make itself heard through the sluggishness of his mind. His instincts screamed a warning at him and he turned around, just as searing-red pain exploded in his side.

_"THORIN!"_

_The bellow was behind his back, but he had been distracted by a cry of pain roaring up from his youngest nephew, so he turned around a moment too late to take on the spear about to be hauled at him by an approaching orc. A weight slammed into his side and Dwalin pushed the spear out of its way at the last possible moment. Thorin was momentarily stunned as he heaved himself up from the ground, caught off-guard by a familiar glint in Dwalin's eyes, an echo of all they had shared over the past 180 years._

_"Dwa-"_

Thorin roared and finished his movement with the last of his strength, neatly severing the orc's head from its shoulders. He crashed to the ground only moments later, barely avoiding the corpses littered around him and screaming again when the dead creature's blade was wretched out from between his ribs. Every ounce of strength had drained from him, seeping into the ground together with his blood and he knew that it was finally over. All he could do was to stare at the trees towering above him and wonder whether the Maker had any mercy left to spare for someone as him and grant him a swift death.

_Dwalin's eyes went wide as he stared at the gleaming red tip of a blade protruding from his chest. Somebody screamed and it took Thorin a while to notice that it was his own voice. There were shouts surrounding him, a flash of white as Balin saw his brother fall and took bloody revenge on the orc who was responsible. More commotion arose around him as his nephews kept him from dying as long as his own body was unable to move. He was only able to stare at Dwalin's face, watch the life draining out of his eyes, the broken grey forever burned into his mind. The warrior was dead before he even hit the ground._

_He didn't remember much after that - he had fought until his muscles had become numb, until he should have been unable to move anymore, still hacking and slashing at his foes even after they were all long dead. He remembered hands on his arms, trying to restrain him as he was trashing and shouting words without sense and dragging him back to the healer's tents. Somebody forcing a cup to his lips and to swallow the bitter brew inside when all he wanted was to go back onto the battlefield, search for his One whose body was still out there and hold him once again, frantic for forgiveness he would never find in this world. He hadn't even noticed that his arm had been broken until the healer set the bones and as if a floodgate had been opened the pain of a dozen ignored wounds had been surging through his body and he was screaming again. But there was no relief to be found, not even in the darkness of unconsciousness and sleep, for even his dreams were filled with nothing but blood and the empty stare from broken grey eyes reflecting his own failure._

Blood was slowly filling his throat and a distant part of his mind calmly supplied the information that the last strike must have hit his lungs as it became harder and harder for him to breathe. He wondered idly if there had been enough time for Dwalin to feel the crippling pain like the one ripping through his own body right now and he couldn't help but think that he should have died instead of him. Dwalin would have mourned him, yes, would have mourned all they had been and all they could have been but he would have lived on. He had always been the stronger of the two of them, able to withstand even the cruellest lashings of fate. He would have grown old in Erebor, would have been as good a warrior and fighter for the next king as he ever was for Thorin. And though the wounds in his heart might never have healed, he could have lived with them, _would_ have lived with them. Thorin knew well that he had only been a shadow of his former self during the two years of his reign, a ghost in his own home that had suddenly become meaningless without Dwalin's boisterous laughter to fill its vast halls.

Thorin could feel his life leaving him and he cursed his body for fighting the inevitable and clawing for breath were none was to be found. His sight was already darkening at its edges, fingers digging into the ground made muddy by blood as they twitched in helpless struggle. He felt a dim sting of regret that he would deny his kin the act of burying him in stone - but neither had his father or grandfather been. It was only fitting that he shared their fate as he had shared their madness.

His body convulsed as his lungs kept fighting for a breath they couldn't take, the taste of sweet copper overwhelming his senses and a roaring wave of pain flaring up inside him one last time. He thought he could hear Dwalin's voice, promising him that he was His with clasps of silver in his hand, whispering his love in his ear, roaring on the battlefield next to him, laughing at a joke in the tavern, and breaking when his One didn't recognise him. Dwalin's hands on his body, his fingers on his skin, his eyes warm and brimming with love. Thorin's last thought was of lips touching his, the sweet sensation of memory mingling with his dimming sight and red waves of agony blotting out the world.

Then darkness took him.


	6. The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dwalin returns home at the end of his long life (heavily inspired by the song 'To Build a Home' by 'The Cinematic Orchestra' - link at the beginning of the fic).
> 
>  **Prompt:** The End  
>  **Rating:** G/T  
>  **Warnings:** character death (implied)

_And I built a home_  
 _for you for me_  
 _Until it disappeared_  
 _from me from you_  
 _And now, it's time to leave and turn to dust..._

([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oUFJJNQGwhk))

 

Dwalin's steps guided him as surely as they had done centuries before. He hadn't been back in the Blue Mountains for a hundred and eighty years, but his heart and body knew every detail as if he had seen it only yesterday.

The settlement that they had spent almost a century living in had been abandoned not long after Erebor had been reclaimed. Even Dís had left, for there were too many memories tied to Ered Luin, too many corners behind which lurked the dead faces of those she had lost. They hadn't returned since, rebuilding Erebor and battling the emptiness in their hearts, much like the rest of the company.

Now, however, they were all gone - Óin, Ori and his foolish brother dying before their time on a quest that had almost been doomed from the beginning. The other members of the company, even those younger than him, had passed one by one, most of them in peace and quiet. Even Dís was gone now, the last of the royal line of Thrór being laid to rest in the stone of the mountain. Gimli had chosen to become the lord of his own caves and left the mountain too; and with his move, the last one of those truly dear to him had vanished from his life.

Dwalin had felt the weariness of age finally settling in his body and knew where he wanted to go before it was over. Only towards the end of his life he had admitted to himself that there was only one place that he truly ever called home. It was their old settlement in Ered Luin, the one place where he had found true happiness. Erebor was where he had been born and had spent most of his life - but it had always been emptier than the Blue Mountains for him for it was missing those who had always been most important to him.

Ered Luin meant watching Fíli and Kíli grow up, bringing a smile to their mother's and, often enough, even their uncle's face; it meant weeks spent together in the forge and hours belonging just to the two of them, sleeping arm in arm, lazily exploring each other's bodies or having their senses quiver in ecstasy.

It had taken him longer to reach Ered Luin than he thought it would have. He had joined a trading caravan from Erebor on their way to the old dwarven settlements in the Blue Mountains and taken a week's leave from them to return to his old home, knowing well that they would come and search for him if he didn't return in time. His age had finally been catching up with him in what he knew were the last few years of his life - he felt like he had aged more in the last month than he had in the last decades. He had to admit to himself that the fall of the Dark Lord years ago had greatly facilitated their travels although a few times he had almost wished for an orc pack to ambush them just so that he could feel the exhilaration of using his axes in battle one last time. The elves had found Grasper and Keeper in their dark forest and returned them to him after a while, a gift that Dwalin had at first been reluctant to accept. The love for his weapons and all they meant to him, however, had won out over his dislike for the pointy-eared creatures and he could only smile when he thought of what Thorin would have to say about it.

The two axes were still strapped securely to his back when he entered their former settlement through what had once been a mighty archway, part of a wooden palisade to protect the inhabitants from orcs and other unsavoury folk. Now the structure had rotted over the many decades that had passed. Dwalin remembered with a small smile that Thorin had always meant to fortify it and replace it with much more durable stone, but somehow the task had always been further delayed and the plans were never realised.

In contrast to their fortifications, the small wooden huts that they had built at the beginning of moving here had all been remade over the course of time into houses made of stone, for nothing settled a dwarrow's heart as much as the solidity of rock around them, even if it was only a flimsy one in contrast to the steady sides of a mountain. Most of the houses were nestled into the side of the slope, close enough to provide a sense of a community but still far enough away from each other to grant an air of privacy that was so valued by many dwarrows.

Most of the houses Dwalin passed were no more than ruins now, the settlement having been abandoned when its inhabitants had returned to the mountain. He recognised the homes of many old friends and acquaintances and his steps stilled for a moment when he remembered that barely any of them were alive anymore. What had the Maker's intention been of having him live so long that he had to watch all those that he loved die?

The houses belonging to his and Thorin's families had been situated not far from each other, the forge they had shared in the middle between them. Dwalin's heart almost stopped when he finally laid eyes on the buildings - parts of them were crumbled already, the roofs having given in at several places and walls fallen to the ground. The tree behind them was gone as well, its falling having taken part of a wall with it. Dwalin still remembered Fíli and Kíli playing in its branches until the sun had set, never intimidated by its height like many other dwarves had been. He also recalled the one day Fíli had fallen out of the branches and broken his arm; his little brother, suddenly too scared to descend on his own, had been caught by Thorin in a sure embrace when he had let himself drop down from one of the lowest branches.

With slow steps aching not only from the long journey he approached his home long gone. Oddly enough, the carvings in the stone above their doors were still intact and only barely weathered by the passage of time. The signs proclaiming the blessing of the Maker onto everybody who lived in and entered their houses had been ingrained by Thorin's own hands. If he half-closed his eyes, Dwalin could still see his burly shape on the small ladder, brows creased in concentration as he carefully chiselled away at the stone. Most people had always associated Thorin's frown with his anger and dark moods, but few of them knew that it could also speak of utter concentration whenever he was working.

He reached up, ignoring the protests of a shoulder dislocated one time too many during his long life and traced the worn symbols with his fingers. Then he ducked under the doorframe and entered in the shadowy hallways of what had once been their home. It was a bright and sunny day and the rooms were filled with light, illuminating the traces the passage of time had left here and bringing an odd sort of peace to the place.

Balin and he had sold or given away most of the furniture they had possessed, knowing that they would not return one way or the other. The rooms were therefore empty and nature had long since started to claim back its space. Weeds were growing between cracks of stone and Dwalin saw more than one mouse scurrying away from his steps. Even a small tree had already settled in one of the destroyed corners of the old house, likely a descendant of the mighty one Fíli and Kíli had climbed so long ago.

Their forge was equally empty - Dís had taken most of their tools with her and those too heavy or not valuable enough (of which were few, since there weren't many things more precious to dwarrows than the tools of their craft) she had given to others. Her sons' and brother's tools she had taken with them, but never used again; Thorin's favourite hammer still lay in a corner in Dwalin's chamber in Erebor next to his own. He wondered for a moment what would become of them - would they be kept in a storage room somewhere until they lay forgotten whilst their owners had long passed into legend? Or would they be melted down and used to fashion new tools for the next generations to use? He supposed it didn't matter anymore, at least not to them.

Dwalin moved on to the place his One and family had lived in for more than a century. Despite all that had changed and fallen apart, the familiarity still tore an aching hole into his chest as his heavy boots left footprints in the dust. His fingers were trailing over marks left in the stone that he remembered all too well - the dent in a wall where Thorin's hammer had hit it in a fit of rage, another one courtesy of Dís' temper who had always been so alike to her brother in the ferociousness of her anger. And, of course, the numerous little holes and scratches in the wall much lower above the ground that still bore witness to Fíli's and Kíli's wild childhood.

When he closed his eyes, his mind painted the rooms and walls around him with pictures of the past, filling his senses with phantoms that would never return. Dís in her favourite armchair besides the hearth, Fíli sitting in her lap whilst she was trying to braid his hair with her son squirming under the firm grip of her fingers. Thorin sitting opposite her, pipe in one hand, Kíli on his knees and a story on his lips that made the two young dwarrows laugh and stare in awe, his gaze flickering over to Dwalin from time to time and a small smile playing around his lips. Balin would have been sitting in the corner at the table, a scroll spread on it and muttering something under his breath even as the light in his eyes betrayed the joy at the peaceful scene around him.

Thorin's bedroom had been half destroyed by the tree crashing into the corner of the house and ripping two of the walls apart. The strength of the memories in Dwalin's mind, however, remained as lively as before and sensations he thought he had forgotten long ago suddenly tingled on his skin. The ghost of lips on his, peppering his face and neck with gentle kisses and trailing down his chest, disembodied fingers marking his body with love and drawing pleasure as they were tracing tattoos and scratched the surface of his flesh. Mingled with them were thoughts of fingers intertwining with his, of red blood seeping on the sheets, of tales he had woven in Thorin's last hours as he sat beside his dying One, tales of a life in Erebor they would never have.

He sighed as he lowered himself to the floor in the crumbled doorway between the two rooms, mind filled with the echoes of a life long gone and dwarrows long dead, the good memories roaming around his head as well as the bad, courtesy of almost a century of life lived here to the fullest. With a careful movement he removed his axes from his back and put them down next to him, feeling the weariness in his bones that told him he wouldn't get up again as he leaned his head against the sun-warmed stone of the wall.

It was time to let go. He had lived so long, the Maker in cruel irony granting him a life far beyond the usual span of a dwarrow's normal years, and now he could feel the very same life slowly draining from his body. Surely he would be allowed to choose his moment of death by himself, now that he had fulfilled the promise to his One to live for him and see the mountain prosper. The others from the caravan would find him and see to it that his body was buried in stone whilst his soul had long fled to finally gain peace again.

For a single moment a veil seemed to be lifted from his eyes and he glimpsed them all, waiting for him - Dís, now reunited with her grinning sons and husband, Frerin who had the same cheeky glint in his eyes as three hundred years ago, Balin, Fundin and Varna, with calm faces and laughter in their hearts and Thorin, his king, his lover, his One, the blue of his eyes shining softly with warmth and anticipation.

He exhaled one last time, a smile spreading on his face.

Then he closed his eyes.


	7. Intimcay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for staying with me until this point, folks! Let's finish this of with what hopefully passes as porn if you squint.
> 
> **Prompt:** Intimacy  
>  **Rating:** M  
>  **Warnings:** porn with just the tiniest bit of angst  & hurt/comfort

_"I live by you, desire_   
_I stand by you, walk through the fire_   
_Your love is my scripture_   
_Let me into your encryption"_

([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F7CVDKkff4c))

Thorin flinched when the heated needle went through his skin. He took a deep breath and steadied himself, concentrating on the feeling of the rough fur beneath his fingers on the ground rather than the stinging pain on his back.

"Almost done." Dwalin murmured behind him, his rumbling voice soothingly deep. Thorin grimaced, cursing his moment of inattention that had let to Dwalin's blade slicing almost a hand's width deep into the skin between his left shoulder and neck. They seldomly put on armour when sparring anymore, their knowledge of each other's skill and movements so intimate by now that they could avoid serious injuries even when practising with sharp weapons. Thorin would have been dead by now if it were otherwise.

Dwalin knew better than to apologise for hurting his king, although he would never be comfortable with the thought of the blood running from Thorin's skin being the work of his own hands. It wasn't the first injury they had given each other during sparring and would surely not be the last either. He finished the remaining few stitches with a sure hand and took up a cloth to wipe the last of the blood off Thorin's skin. Thorin winced slightly at the rasp of the fabric on his torn flesh, but settled back with an almost audible sigh of relief when Dwalin reached down to pick up some salve and smear it carefully over the edges of the wound, the ointment cooling the heated skin. He folded a smaller pieces of cloth and put it over the injury, finishing up the bandages around it with a sure touch.

"Tight enough?" he asked and Thorin rolled his shoulder, nodding after a moment. There was enough movement left for his arm and the bandages were so tight that they would stay put.

Dwalin's arms were around his bare chest a moment later, pulling him closer and almost into his lap. Thorin's hair was bound together and slung over his right shoulder, leaving his back bare and exposed to the gentle kisses that Dwalin now started planting on the skin of his neck, as if asking to for permission. Thorin felt his body respond, leaning back his head and arching into the touch. He reached up and behind him with his right arm, slinging it around Dwalin's neck and pulling him closer, wordlessly granting him the leave to continue.

Dwalin smiled for a second before his kisses slowly grew more forceful, quickly turning into little bites that were sure to leave marks on his lover's skin the next day. His hands were kneading Thorin's back and shoulders now, ever mindful of the wound and only drawing the smallest amount of pleasuring pain as he pulled the tension out of his muscles. Together with the sensation of teeth on skin it elicited a groan from Thorin, prompting him to lean back even further into the touch of his One until his own head rested on Dwalin's shoulder.

Dwalin felt himself lured in once again when he could sense the movement of the muscles beneath the skin of Thorin's back under his fingers, mesmerised by the motions and the sensation of his hot and heavy breathing so close to his own ears. His hands were moving almost of their own accord now, leaving Thorin's back and travelling around his hips towards his chest and stomach.

He could feel the smirk on Thorin's face before he turned his head so that his lips brushed the curve of Dwalin's ear, whispering with a low and husky voice right next to his skin:

"Don't you think it's rather unfair that you're still completely dressed?"

A rumbling little laugh left Dwalin's mouth and he was quick to oblige the request hidden in Thorin's question, removing first his belt, then the tunic underneath. Thorin had turned around in the mean time, putting a hand on his chest now and slowly pushing him down to the floor. His eyes had turned dark in the particular shade of desire and lust that was reserved for Dwalin only. His mouth was half open and the breath caught in his throat when he realised once again the perfection that was hidden in his lover - the shape of his muscles, the strands of coarse hair on his chest, broken by the silver shimmer of scars and the dark outlines of tattoos beneath. A thought flashed through Thorin's mind that he had never thanked their Maker enough that such perfection was his and his only.

Every trace of thinking was soon swept in a wave of sensation from his thoughts when Dwalin's hands wandered back onto his hips and abdomen, his fingers tracing the many marks on his skin, from weapon and ink alike. Thorin lowered himself onto Dwalin with almost agonising slowness, basking in the sensations shooting through his body as more and more of their skin connected with each other.

The pulsating warmth in Dwalin's heart exploded into a storm of heat when Thorin finally kissed his lips with the same intensity that the darkness in his eyes had promised earlier, making something inside him melt and scream out like a raging storm as his One's lips traced the curve of his jaws back to his ears. He had just enough mind left to grab onto Thorin's shoulders and flip him over on his back with a quick move. Thorin exhaled sharply, with both pain flashing through him from the wound and pleasure at the touch, snarling as he bit into Dwalin's ear in response.

Dwalin smirked and buried his nose in Thorin's hair, noting with satisfaction that it had slowly started to become undone, spilling in irregular waves over his shoulders. His fingers moved down to deal with the laces of Thorin's trousers, hurrying to get them undone as soon as possible whilst his lover continued to set his skin on fire with kisses that were growing more feverish by the moment. Dwalin could already feel him getting hard through the thin fabric of his breeches. Thorin's own fingers were leaving little bruises on the skin of his chest now as they moved downwards to nestle with the edges of Dwalin's trousers.

Their minds were screaming at them to remove everything that stood in the way of their touch, to finally grant free access to each other's flesh and Thorin snarled again as fabric momentarily resisted his attempts to push free of it. Dwalin mirrored his movements, somehow trying to both touch, kiss, and get rid of their garments all at once, feeling the heat rushing through his body, robbing him of the ability to catch a single clear thought. Then he was on his back again, both their trousers and undergarments lying discarded on the side, and marvelling at the sight of his One as he slowly made his way down his chest with his mouth. Thorin made sure to kiss, bite and suck at every spot that Dwalin was most sensitive at, mapping out the shape of his tattoos and the soft valleys formed by his muscles with his lips and teeth.

The warrior's fingernails were digging into the skin of Thorin's back, leaving red scratches on the pale flesh to mark what was his and would always be his. Dwalin's fingers were grabbing his hair, clenching around the dark strands and yanking at them when he finally felt Thorin's mouth closing around him.

They had been One for decades and spent almost as much time experimenting, learning each other's bodies and desires like one would learn their craft. By now they knew exactly what the other wanted and what brought them the most pleasure and so Dwalin was sure that the nails of his fingers pressing into Thorin's scalp only served to spur the other on more as he found his rhythm, the movements of his tongue quickly bringing Dwalin to moan and arching his back.

Sometimes he relished the sight of Thorin looking dishevelled, hair clinging to sweaty cheeks and a wildness paired with pleasure in his eyes that would bring the greatest warrior to his knees as he was working him. Today, however, Dwalin had barely enough mind left to do so as heat was curling in his stomach and groin, bringing him closer to fulfilment - he closed his eyes and let his body do the talking for him, drowning in the feeling of ecstasy filling him to the brim and surging through his mind in waves.

They had done it so often now that Dwalin had lost count long ago, but somehow every single time still felt like a miracle to him, the feeling of skin on flesh and utter trust and love more precious than any gem on earth. He wished he could collect all those moments of pure bliss when there was no need of thinking, just acting when all their burdens fell from their shoulders and they gave in to the mindless need of their bodies.

There were times when Thorin loved to tease, loved to draw out the moment but today he was as eager as Dwalin himself, bringing him to the climax and relishing the terse body bucking under his hands and tongue as the warrior momentarily forgot to breathe, his fingers in Thorin's hair becoming slack when he finally came. Thorin loved the taste of sex in his mouth - it was Dwalin and Dwalin was his and this was proof of it.

When he moved upwards again and kissed his One with lips swollen and red, Dwalin dimly thought that he had never seen a more beautiful sight in his life. His arms closed around his lover and he held him tightly now, sliding down the line of his spine with his fingers until they came to rest on his lower back, relishing in the quiet moans of Thorin's voice against his skin.

Thorin whispered something and the tingling of his breath on Dwalin's flesh was close to driving him mad. He repeated his words and this time they found their way into Dwalin's mind, telling him that he needed to feel him, that he wanted him inside, needed him as close as possible. Thorin never truly begged, but asked instead for what he knew would give both of them pleasure. A part of Dwalin's mind wondered whether all the physical fulfilment he could give him would somehow be enough to fill the emptiness made of anger and fear that sat in Thorin's heart, but at the same time he knew that whatever he could do to draw his One away from the demons inside his own head he would do without asking.

Dwalin was still panting harshly, trembling slightly from the aftermath as he watched Thorin get up and return only moments later with a little flask of oil. When the he re-entered the room Thorin found the stare of Dwalin's grey eyes directed at him, unabashedly drinking in the sight of his entire body. He smirked slightly at the attention.

"Enjoying the view?" he teased, not even trying to hide the husky undertone to his voice.

His One grinned, his own voice much lower than usual and coloured raw by need.

"Come down here."

Thorin was only too happy to oblige, lowering himself onto the worn rug they had placed in front of the fireplace earlier to treat his injury, eyes never leaving the shape of his lover as he turned on his back. Sometimes urgency and passion drove the two of them to violence, deliberately blurring the lines between pleasure and pain. Then they were snarling and biting, rough when they both wanted and needed to be, tender only when all the heat was spent but then even more so.

Today, however, was different. They took all the time in the world they had, Dwalin carefully preparing him as they revelled in the touch and feeling that Thorin had been yearning for. The warrior was the only one who had knowledge of every inch of his body, knew him so well that he found the spot inside him that made him moan and writhe in ecstasy without effort. Never would anybody else be allowed to see the king like this, the sight of him losing control belonging to Dwalin and Dwalin alone.  

Thorin's toes were curling on the ground as he spread his legs, blue gaze locking with grey and his breath coming in ragged gasps as his lover finally entered him. For a single moment he felt whole again - this was what he had wanted, what he had hoped for and suddenly he felt like he was about to burst from all the emotions inside him, shatter on the floor in a million pieces that would turn to dust with the morning.

Dwalin sensed him coming apart and leaned in more closely, elbows digging into the fur and bringing his lips to Thorin's to ground him to an earth that was shaking around him. Thorin put his arms around his neck and drew him closer again, moaning as he felt Dwalin move inside him. His One stifled the sound with another kiss, all tenderness and care now and the desperate wish to hold him together.

They stayed like this for a long time even after they had both come, Dwalin thinking that Thorin would be the only one who could ever coax him so far. Thorin felt himself wishing that they could melt into each other if they stayed like this, barely any air left between their bodies and arms wrapped firmly around each other.

Dwalin smiled when he became aware that Thorin was murmuring his name under his breath, the sounds drawn out and said slowly over and over again. The words were beautiful and forlorn at the same time, a lost note in them making his heart ache. Thorin had never seen himself as worthy, not a worthy king, a worthy brother and a worthy lover and the only thing that Dwalin could do against it was to repeat the opposite until Thorin would finally believe him one day and stop thinking that he wasn't deserving of such luck as Dwalin in his arms.

Thorin kept holding on, suddenly in need of reassurance that Dwalin was truly there, truly next to him and that this was where he would always be. Memories flashed through his mind and he heard a voice inside him whisper that nothing good he had ever known would stay, that his line was cursed and whatever happiness he managed to find would be ripped away from him again in a single heartbeat.

"Never leave me." he suddenly found himself whispering into Dwalin's hair, half wishing the other one hadn't heard it. But of course he had.

"Don't plan to." the warrior grumbled and kissed him again. Dwalin put all his feelings into the kiss, tried to pull all the poisonous thoughts out of Thorin's head with the touch of his lips and tongue.

They only moved again when the heat from their bodies was slowly wearing off. Thorin sighed when Dwalin moved out of him, the decrease in contact between them feeling much more like a loss than it should have. His lover quickly brushed it over with another kiss, covering it with another touch of his hands that were as firm and reassuringly warm as always.

Dwalin stood up and returned moments later with a blanket in his hands that was big enough to fit both of them together, Thorin now sitting up and expecting his return. There were still shadows lingering in his eyes giving him the look of someone who was slightly lost. Dwalin didn't speak; instead he sat down next to him and pulled him into his lap again, wrapping the blanket around the two of them to ward off the incoming chill of the night air. He buried his head in Thorin's hair and held onto him, knowing that all he needed right now was warmth and a few moments of time.

Soon Thorin closed his eyes and let his body relax, sinking back against Dwalin. Both of them were content with the silence filling the room only broken by their calm breathing, revelling in the warmth that they were sharing between them. The warrior smiled when he noticed that Thorin was slowly nodding off. He gently lowered the two of them to the floor, creeping closer to Thorin's body under the blanket and watching the last flames in the fireplace slowly dwindle. His king would never admit it, but Dwalin knew it was Thorin's favourite way to fall asleep, enveloped by the arms of his One as if Dwalin's presence was enough to ward off the nightmares.

Balin returned home late that night, smiling to himself as he saw the picture in front of him. Both his brother and his king were sleeping, their mouths slightly open and filling the room with gentle snores. Thorin was as relaxed as he had never seen him when awake, almost child-like in the peaceful expression of his face. Dwalin had a slight smile on his lips, his arms still firmly wrapped around him and Balin felt a surge of warmth at the sight. He quietly tiptoed out of the room only to return moments later with a second blanket that he draped over the two sleepers to replace the warmth from the fire that had long gone out. Then he withdrew to his own bedroom, quietly thanking the Maker for the love those two had found.


End file.
